War of the Werelords (18 page)

T
HE
B
ATTLE OF THE
B
ANA
G
AP

THE NORTHERN BAREBONES
rose out of the desert, a menacing curtain of towering rock that separated Omir from its neighboring realms. From Riven in the west to the Red Coast in the East, the black mountains were impassable; only the mad and suicidal chose to traverse them. Even at the height of summer, the temperature dropped in the Desert Realm, and sparkling frost formed over the region. The moon and stars shone, reflected across the sand in shimmering crystal fields. There was only one safe route through the Barebones, one road that cut through the mighty pillars of dread, dark rock: the Bana Gap. The city from which it took its name was carved out of the cliffs, an impenetrable fortress left over from a bygone age.

The army of the Catlords sat camped below the sheer walls of jagged stone, reinforced by an immense force of Omiri. The tents of the elite Goldhelms and Redcloaks took the higher ground at the base of the opposing cliffs, in fine sight of the city. Above them, the Vultures of Bast roosted on the rock face, in total command of the sky, their fellow countrymen's command tent below.

The Weretiger, Field Marshal Tiaz, kept one eye on Bana, his other on the camp of Omiri that massed to the south. He stood outside his tent, glowering at the unruly horde, their fires burning in the night. Could a Cat ever truly trust a Dog? In this case, they had no choice. These were not the proud Jackals of the Desert Realm but their violent, covetous neighbors, the caninthropes of Ro-Pasha. They wanted Omir for themselves, to carve up King Faisal's land with Lady Hayfa, the Hyena of Ro-Shan. Since they had sided with the Bastians, the job was almost done. With Azra surely fallen to Hayfa, all that remained was to put that gaggle of fools who hid within the fortress city of Bana, the allies of the Wolf, to the sword. They had been locked within the mountains for months now, humans and therians alike, Jackals and Hawklords, doomed to die together in the ancient tomb.

Tiaz's army watched the city, faint fires burning within the slatted windows of the rock face. The enormous stone doors, scores of meters tall, remained closed to the outside world, the mechanisms within ensuring none could pass. Hundreds of feet up the cliffs, the occasional balcony, tower, or turret sat proud, carved out of the black stone. These were barricaded and barred, fortified from within. There'd been no movement up there for weeks, the besieged defenders hiding away like vermin behind their defenses. The Tigerlord suspected they were on their last legs now, their provisions gone, nerves shredded, and will broken. Any day now, he would give them his final terms. He might even show clemency, allow some to live. All but the Hawklords who commanded them; Count Carsten and Baron Baum needed to be made examples of, as well as the Bastians who were said to fight alongside them. There had been a rumor of a Catlord among their number, but Tiaz scoffed at the notion. What felinthrope in his right mind would battle against his brethren, so far from home?

Old and tired though he was, there was nothing weary about Tiaz's eyesight. He called out now, pointing skyward, causing all about his command tent to stir. The shout went up, spreading like wildfire, Vultures taking to the wing as they heeded the field marshal's warning. There it was, flitting down the cliffs from high above the city, wings folded as it plummeted. Even from this great distance, the Tigerlord could see white feathers and a slender frame, with a rapierlike beak trained earthward as it descended through the Bana Gap. The Vultures were already closing in, rushing to intercept but caught quite unawares. The Birdlord had landed upon a balcony, taloned fists hammering the barricades as it called for the attention of those within. The Vultures were almost upon the white avianthrope when lights appeared on the balcony, torches lending their glow to the jagged rocks about them as the defenses were briefly opened. Arrows flew, showering the Bastian Werelords and scattering their attack before the barriers were brought up once more. The lights were snuffed out and the messenger bird was within the city.

“Ready yourselves for anything,” snarled Tiaz, storming into his command tent as his men rushed to purpose. “And fetch me my armor. The night just got interesting.”

• • •

Field Marshal Tiaz had only just donned his breastplate when the first attack came, through the heart of the Bana Gap itself. With the only resistance gathered in the black mountain, Tiaz had collected his might around the fortress city, foolishly neglecting the road north. The lands between the River Robben and the Barebones had been all but forgotten, long ago conquered in the earliest days of the war, the entire Great West Road under the command of the Catlords. The battle was in Bana: what could possibly come from the north?

A bloodcurdling howl heralded their arrival, as if an army of the dead charged between the mountains. The Catlord army wavered, fear and trepidation gripping Lyssian and Bastian alike. Some Redcloaks turned and ran, while the Goldhelms steeled themselves before the mournful wail. In that moment of doubt, the Wolf's forces struck, stampeding over the first line of defense. Channeled through that narrow corridor of rock came a tide of shield and sword, bow and spear. The Furies of Felos—men who had
trained
under the watchful eye of Tiaz—ran alongside pirates of the Cluster Isles and warriors of Shadowhaven.

Drew led the way, Moonbrand singing as it sought out his foes. His jaws clapped and the sword struck out, cracking limbs and snapping bone. Miloqi's terrible howl, though unnerving, was no longer something her allies feared. The strange magicks that she channeled, unique to the White Wolves, were a gift as powerful as Bastian blasting powder. The Catlord forces crumpled beneath their charge, rocking back on their heels before being trampled underfoot.

Vega and Mikotaj fought either side of Drew, bringers of doom that escorted him ever deeper into enemy territory. The Sharklord's monstrous head was slick with gore. His rapier darted in and out, striking men standing upright, their hearts suddenly punctured so they were dead before they fell. The giant White Wolf laughed as he fought, eyes wild with mad delight, enormous spear tossing enemies aside as his fur turned red and dark with death.

The second wave came from the black cliff itself, the great steel doors of the fortress city yawning open as the force within made a final, frantic bid for freedom. While the army who camped in the Bana Gap had safely bided their time for the passing months, awaiting the siege's inevitable conclusion, those with the mountain stronghold had become steadily more desperate. When Florimo had arrived at that late hour, the Ternlord's message was simple: it was do or die. The brave but weary souls inside the fortress had readied weapon and armor and shared their farewells. Gathering before the doors, they had waited for the signal, their hearts racing with anticipation, their torment soon to be over one way or another. Therian lords had stood beside human friends, the bond of the besieged having broken down all station and standing. As Miloqi's dread howl sounded in the Gap, the mechanism cranked into life, cogs turning, bars unlocking as the steel doors swung outward. Ragged Jackals leapt forth as half-starved humans charged, Hawklords taking to the air in a shower of faded feathers.

Momentarily stunned, the Catlord army found itself torn between two enemies. While the Vultures swooped down to meet the Hawks in the sky, the Goldhelms clashed with those who escaped the city on foot. Jackals and therian lords of the jungle continent met across the front line as men of Bast and Lyssia crossed swords. The proud Werelords of Omir were not alone, joined by the survivors of the Furnace—Krieg, Taboo, and the Behemoth—alongside falconthropes too frail to fly.

Field Marshal Tiaz led the Redcloaks up the Gap, directing the vanguard against the greater force. Whatever happened in the coming battle, there was still a means to retreat, not that the Tiger liked to consider such things. That useless rabble the Doglords called an army covered their backs in the desert, waiting to be called upon should reinforcements be necessary. As for the enemy, those who emerged from the city were a wretched, ruined lot, destined for the long sleep at the end of Bastian blades. The onrushing mob from the north, however, was a quite different beast. This was clearly the main threat to Tiaz, an army of fresh, fit, and fully prepared foes to face. Over the sea of helmet, pike, and sword he could see the enemy command leading the charge. Dark and gloomy though the Gap was, the Werelords were well illuminated among the Lionguard, a Sharklord in a kill-soaked frenzy while a berserk White Wolf went wild nearby. The light that shone on them came from the white sword that glowed in the clawed hand of the Gray Wolf—
the
Gray Wolf.
There was only one that yet lived, realized Tiaz, a surge of excitement gripping him as he understood whom he faced.

The Tigerlord ripped his sword free from its scabbard, vivid stripes of orange and black appearing across the fur that flooded his flesh. He turned, calling out to his senior officers. General Primus, cousin to Onyx, strode to his side, the young Panther wielding a wicked scimitar, its crescent-moon blade blessed with silver runes. Lord Urok, the Red Ape of World's End, beat his chest with excitement, hefting a mighty pick from a loop of leather on his back.

“With me, brothers,” said Tiaz. “We end this war tonight, and so cover ourselves in glory.”

As the Tiger, Panther, and Ape pushed through the Lionguard, drawing ever closer to their enemy, they were unaware of the chaos that had erupted beyond the Gap in the sand. The Doglords, those thieves of the Desert Realm and unlikely allies to the Cats, had been stirred from their tents. Jackals swept through their encampment, led by King Faisal of Azra. He was not alone, his brothers and cousins fighting at his side.

The Furies under the command of Opal cut a merciless swath through the oblivious Doglords alongside them, living up to their names as their twin blades saw red. The Beauty of Bast danced before them, claws and sword seeking the caninthropes of Ro-Pasha. Djogo followed behind her, sticking close to the Pantherlady, in awe of her might and keen to reach the Gap. And there were others, the richest merchant fighting alongside former slaves set free at the behest of Drew Ferran. Humans with something to fight for: their city, their country, their freedom.

The third force had attacked.

• • •

Drew chanced a look to the heavens as he strode forward on long, lupine legs. Hawks and Vultures swooped and spun, clashing and crying, shrieking and stabbing. The dark sky was alive with aerial combat, every bit as deadly as what played out below within the Gap. A Lyssian falconthrope was plucked from his fight with one of the foreign Birdlords, the talons of a second Vulture seizing his back and tearing his shoulders apart. As the Bastian released the broken-winged warrior, he swiftly followed in a downward spiral, a Hawklord arrow thrumming through his throat.

Bringing his attention back to his own battle, Drew found himself firmly in the thick of the fiercest fighting. Vega and Mikotaj were nowhere to be seen, the only allies nearby the occasional huddle of Furies and Sturmlanders. The Furies were more calm and composed than any humans he'd seen, working as a unit. When enemy weapons approached, the twin blades crossed and parried, every bit as effective in defense as attack. With the blows deflected they struck out in deadly waves, cutting back the Lionguard like a field of scarlet wheat. And then there were the men of Shadowhaven. Like barbarians from the storybooks, they roared and bellowed as they battered their way through the Redcloaks, axes and spears scything and jabbing.

Brave though his allies were, they were horribly outnumbered, their progress through the Gap stuttering to a stumble. The tide of Redcloaks before them had now reinforced after the initial attack. Though the Wolf's force had struck a heavy blow with their surprise assault, the hundreds of Lionguard who'd died in those earliest moments hardly seemed missed, rank upon rank standing before them. While some were the soft-bellied Lion's men of Lyssia, sworn first into Leopold's service and then Lucas's, many had sailed to the Seven Realms from Bast. These were the authentic Redcloaks from Leos, sent in recent months to swell the Catlord army.

The front line of the battle was a terrible press of desperate souls, pushed on by the weight of numbers at their backs. Some dropped their swords, switching to dirks and daggers or feet and fists, struggling for dominion over their enemy in grisly embraces. Screams and roars filled the air, joining the cacophony of clashing steel as the din of battle filled the Bana Gap.

Moonbrand came down and across a row of Redcloak weapons, transforming spears into splintered staves in an instant. The Werewolf stepped forward, pushing the useless weapons aside with his shoulder, and bringing his sword back along the line. With the distance between them now closed, the white Sturmish blade found the Redcloak torsos, ripping a terrible cut through them. The men went down as the Wolf advanced, inspired to greater deeds by Miloqi's terrible wail ringing in his ears. The lady of Shadowhaven was back behind their lines, howling her heart out, chilling the blood of their foes and testing their resolve. To those who enjoyed her allegiance, the song was haunting and beautiful, another weapon in the Wolves' arsenal.